


The White Queen

by Ophiel



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Corporate Espionage, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Intrigue, Lawyers, Murder Mystery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-10 23:10:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12922218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophiel/pseuds/Ophiel
Summary: The age of industry has come to Thedas. Navigating this new world comes with familiar enemies and age old politics as everyone tries to dominate this new age of iron and steam. Through all this, Evelyn Trevelyan, heiress to Trevelyan Industries, will try to serve her King and country, to shape the future to something worth having.





	1. The Debutante's Dance

The night glittered in the ballroom of The Trevelyan Manor on Drakon's Rise, Denerim's most prestigious districts. As the string quartet played, their song rose to the rafters of the ballroom, a vision of candles and gilt and mirrors. The chandeliers were a galaxy of golden stars. Beneath, bathed in the aureate hue, the young debutantes of Ferelden danced their waltzes, white silks and jewels glimmering to rival the very heavens. The sounds of laughter rose from the gathered glitterati. It was a party ostentatiously for the coming out of the young ladies of high society, and more subtly to celebrate the excesses of being rich.

Or, that was the way it was supposed to seem. 

The ballroom always flowed. Greetings and introductions, passing chatter and whispers in the corner. Always was the ebb of society reflected in the seemingly idle wanderings of the gathered throng. Power was its own kind of gravity, pulling people into its wake, and around these illustrious figures spun the hopeful, the sycophants, the genuine friends, the smiling enemies. It was a dance of itself, one that needed no music beyond the siren call of prestige, power and wealth. 

It was called The Game, an Orlesian affectation to be sure. But Ferelden was moving forward in the world, and so had adopted certain customs to take its place upon the stage of international relations. While the Orlesians retained their fondness for masks when playing The Game, the Fereldans, ever eager to one up their western betters, wore the masks under their skins. A smile could cut as deep as a knife, the wave of a fan could break a dozen hearts, a quiet whisper could cement alliances and secure the wealth of nations. 

This was the world in which the rich shaped the future. 

Through the spinning galaxies of high society, a figure walked through the crowd, his suit a simple but elegant gray in a sea of black ties. His hair was strawberry blonde, and he moved with all the ease of a lion among the grass. A cluster of nobles had gathered away from the dance floor, the stringed crescendo soaring in the distance as he approached. A qunari stood taller than the others who gathered around him, though he did not speak to them. He mindfully hovered beside another, hidden by the crowd. 

As the man approached, the crowd glanced at him. He smiled slightly at the uncertainty in some of their eyes, before they lowered them and started to bob their curtseys and their bows. “Your Royal Highness,” some greeted as they stepped aside to give him way, revealing the woman in the centre of the galaxy. 

Small and petite, wearing a pearlescent dress of Antivan silks, she curtseyed to him, her large blue eyes demurely downcast. “Prince Alistair,” she greeted, her voice bearing the artful tinkle of a debutante. Her short dark hair framed a doll-like face. “You honor me, Your Royal Highness.”

“My Lady Trevelyan.” Alistair bowed, bearing some evidence of the gentility he was supposed to have been born with as a royal, or at least, half of one. “Your debutant’s dance was masterly.”

“Now you’re flattering me,” she said, a smile playing at the corners of her bowed lips. 

“Is it working?” 

She burst into laughter like the babbling brook. 

“My lords and ladies,” he said. “I fear I need to steal the dear lady for a moment. There is someone she simply must meet.” He presented the crook of his arm, int which she slipped a gloved hand. They started off through the hall, the Qunari silently following at a respectful distance. 

“How on earth are you keeping him from eating the nibbly things?” Alistair asked, glancing over his shoulder. 

“Bull had a trayful before,” she shrugged. “And thank you for getting me away. The company was dreadfully boring.”

“A bit early in your social career to be saying such things, don’t you think?”

“A bit bold of you to be sweeping me away from a Teyrn, don’t you think?” She looked up at him, her head barely reaching his shoulder as she walked beside him. 

“Touche, dear Evelyn.” He looked around, finding the face in the crowd he was looking for. “You are aware of the recent promotion of Commander Gregoir to knighthood and a comfortable retirement, yes?” 

“I am,” she replied, her voice tight. “It was distinctly inconvenient.”

Alistair smiled at her. “Perhaps I can assist there, in my capacity as Warden Liason to Trevelyan Industries. I would introduce him to your father, but I think you might want to meet this gentleman, considering your eclectic hobbies.”

“Merely as Warden Liason, my prince?” she smiled. 

“Well, among other things.” He gestured through the crowd, where, standing out in a sea of black and white, a man stood in a formal maroon uniform, the gold of his epaulettes and aglets still sparkling, as were the medals upon his breast. Evelyn’s head tilted as she regarded him. She felt Alistair lean down to her ear. “Perhaps Lady Trevelyan would like to pick up her jaw?” he whispered. 

She shut her mouth. “I am sure I don’t know what you mean,” she murmured. 

Alistair smirked at her with barely concealed amusement. She knew this would come up again. Probably multiple times until he tired of it. She allowed him to sweep her over to the man, who was practically pinned to the wall by a ring of white-garbed dabutantes. “Commander,” Alistair said, approaching through the gathered ladies, who could barely contain their shock at the sight of him, and proceeded with hasty curtseys. The man in uniform turned to regard Evelyn with a certain amount of caution, like cornered prey. “I’d like to introduce you to Lady Trevelyan,” Alistair said. “Evelyn, this is Ser Cullen Rutherford, who recently took on the mantle of Commander of the City Guard from Ser Gregoir.”

“Commander,” she curtseyed. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“My lady,” he bowed, as if reading from an internal script. “The pleasure is all mine.”

“Not all yours, I hope,” she said, her blue eyes sparkling. “A young lady has to have some fun as well, otherwise I’ve gone and dressed up for nothing.”

His brow furrowed, as if she’d gone off script. “What?”

She stopped herself, feeling a little sorry for the man who was more out of place than Alistair. “I knew Ser Gregoir well,” she ventured. 

“Oh. I was not aware Ser Gregoir kept such company.” He paused when he saw the twitch of her lips. “When I say ‘kept company’, I mean--”

“Perhaps some champagne?” Alistair said brightly. “Excuse us, ladies, we must find those men with the trays.”

“I am afraid I must take my leave, gentlemen,” Evelyn said, seeing an approaching woman in a simple gown of dark green, her red hair bound in an elegant chignon. 

Alistair’s eyes followed her gaze. “Oh,” he began. “Perhaps--”

“No,” Evelyn said simply. “Tomorrow, then, Your Royal Highness. With your permission, I take my leave.” 

“My permission?” Alistair smiled. 

“Under the present circumstances,” she replied. With eyes older than her years, she looked at Cullen. “Commander, we will meet again soon.” But she was already heading towards the woman in green, who merely glanced at Alistair’s way, and walked off with Evelyn and the silent Qunari. 

+++++

Away from the ballroom and the champagne, the hallways were quiet. Evelyn and Solona’s shoes tapped the marble floor like gavels, while Bull walked with the deceptive silence of a massive man in full control of his body. “You will have to forgive the intrusion,” Solona said as a pair of dark-rimmed half moon glasses appeared in her hand. She slipped them on with ease as she picked up a folder from a waiting servant in the hallway. “But the Antivan Marquis has arrived a little earlier than expected. He insists to speak with you about the factory fire in the Antivan Division. While I understand your distaste for the man...”

“Not the most timely of intrusions,” Evelyn said. “But necessary.” Lost plans, lost lives and rumours abound of sabotage. She hated when she was right about people.

“She finally found the one man in the room she was interested in, in the marriage mart,” Bull said, his voice rolling and shifting with the weight of mountains. “And you went and pulled her away.”

“I was establishing a work relationship. I understand that the man has strong work ethics.”

“Yeah, I could see you staring at his work ethics.”

“Maker, Bull,” Evelyn sighed. “You know that’s silly. Papa will marry me off to whomever he sees fit. Till then, I have my own little projects. Is everything in place, Solona?”

“I am ready, if that is what you mean,” Solona said simply, opening the folder. “I have prepared the intimation that we are commencing investigation--”

“I’m thinking something far more frightening than a lawyer, Sol,” Evelyn said as the moonlight glittered off her silks. “A mage.”

“Understood.”

+++++

The Marquis Alonso waited in the drawing room. His tall frame and finely cut suit made him stand out against his surroundings. Dolls with porcelain faces looked down on him from the shelves above the mantle, their empty eyes watching him as he paced. Upon a table, a game of chess was set up, the match still in progress. 

Automatons lined a wall of the room, delicate birds and cranes, dancing shepherds and twirling ballerinas sparkled with their fine craftsmanship and polished brass parts. This was the room of the little lady who played at business. It never ceased to amaze him how Lord Trevelyan, who had patented the lyrium core boilers - the core that powered all steam engines in place of coal - had given the run of his research division to his frivolous daughter who played with dolls all day. 

He walked up to the automaton wall, seeing a marionette automaton upon a glinting brass box. She collected trinkets like these when her engineers worked on armor for the Wardens. He turned the key of the marionette automaton. The clicking of the wound spring sounded loud in the room. The tinkle of music box music sounded, a simple rag time tune. The puppet jerked to life, dancing upon its little brass stage, its movements jolting at first but growing smoother as the spring powered it. Then it began to quiver as the spring unwound, the puppet twisting in a strange grimace before it tilted back, its knees bent backwards like a broken man. 

He sneered as he watched it twitch, caught in a mechanical rictus. The little girl with her games and her dolls and her toys. She was a child. 

“My Lord Alonso!” He nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned to see the petite Evelyn Trevelyan, donned in white, enter the room. A debutante when she was barely taller than a teenager. She looked at him with vapid eyes. “What an unexpected pleasure!” 

He bowed, firelight glinting off his waxed beard and mustache. “You must forgive me for intruding upon you like this,” he said, his voice heavily accented. “I fear the situation is quite grave.”

“That’s alright!” she chirped. “Papa always makes time for business dealings. It must be weighing heavily on your mind to meet this late in the evening.” She made her way to the sideboard. “A drink? I’m old enough now to join the gentlemen.” She opened the sideboard and he heard the clinking of crystal as she filled two cups. 

“I would not say no, my lady,” he said, and heard her giggle. “Have a care, however. Some of the drinks in that sideboard are not for the faint of heart.”

She turned, presenting him a crystal cup full of the finest of brandies. She sipped hers and wrinkled her nose. “It hits you, doesn’t it?” she said in distaste. 

“My lady, you’ve heard of the explosion at the factory,” he pressed. 

Evelyn sighed as she turned away. “Yes,” she said sadly. “Unfortunate. Twelve people died and a plans of our Warden Deep Walkers are missing, destroyed in the fire.” 

“Indeed,” he said. “It was a tragedy. Those plans were important.”

She sat down at the chair beside the game table. “Very much so,” she said, adjusting her skirt. “I take it the people were a dreadful loss as well.” She smiled at him suddenly, gesturing to the opposite chair. “Come sit. I’m sure you have ideas for compensation for the families.”

“That I do,” he smiled. Perfect. He sat down opposite her. “I’m thinking of perhaps a tidy sum for all of them. And repair work to the wing itself will require funds. Not to mention the fact that we need to move the project to Denerim in the interim.”

“My word that sounds like a lot of money,” Evelyn said, peering at her board. “Do you play chess?”

“No,” he said. He sipped the cup for his nerves. “But more to the point, my lady, yes we will need those funds. The Antivan Division--”

“I do remember I signing over a bank order of a sizeable fortune to you only just last year,” she said, reaching out to move a chess piece. She beamed at him. “You turn, if you will indulge me.”

“What?” he blinked, and stared at the board. He resisted the urge to scowl at her. He forced a laugh instead. “Oh,” he chuckled. “Yes, certainly. It has been ages since I played.” He moved a piece at random. “I understand the fact of the previous banker’s order, but with the recent disaster, we have no choice. We need more capital.”

“Hm?” she cooed, moving another piece. Tap, tap, tap. Three of his pieces were knocked off the table in quick succession. “You’ve lost three in a row, my Lord Alonso. You really should not be so eager to sacrifice your pawns so selfishly like that. Your turn.”

“Oh, three in a row? That is sad.” He moved another piece quickly. “We are looking at the sum of approximately--”

“I don’t like numbers,” she beamed at him, shifting her bishop. It tapped upon the marble board. “With all those people dead in that tragic accident, how can I count the value of their lives?” She looked up at him. “But I will produce the compensation required. Your move.” 

“Thank you, Lady Trevelyan--” Tap, he placed a random piece. “I must admit I’m surprised by your generosity.” 

“Investment,” she said. “And I’m also concerned about the missing plans. If another were to patent the Walkers before we do, Papa will be most upset.” She pouted as she looked down at the board. “I’m afraid you’ve gone and made a mistake. Your king is exposed now, my lord.” 

“Is it?” he smiled, looking down. “I’ve not played this game in ages, I’m afraid.” 

She leaned back in her chair, the silks of her gown rustling. “Tell me, how is the Anderfels this time of year?” 

She saw it then, the slight pallor to his skin. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “I’ve not been to the Anderfels of late.” 

She smiled brightly. “Oh? I must have mistaken,” she said. 

He stared at her vapid smile. Money in a secret account, plans stored in a vault in the Anderfels. But that air ticket was bought under a false name and he travelled in secret. It was impossible that this little vapid princess would know about it. Best to just take what he could and leave. He turned his gaze to the board. His king was trapped. He moved it in desperation, shifting it to the other side of the board. “My goodness, I am in trouble on the board, aren’t I?” he asked lightly. 

“Indeed,” she giggled. “Perhaps you’d like to head to my secretary’s office. She will dispense the banker’s note to you on my behalf.”

Finally, he thought. He stood and bowed. “You are too kind, my lady,” he said as he made his way to the door. He shut it behind him quickly and headed down the hallway. His shoes were silent on the carpet, moonlight lancing through the tall windows casting stark shadows as he walked past. Get the banker’s order, take the money, and he’d leave with a nice amount to settle himself in the Anderfels. The sale of the plans was enough to set himself up for life. Pity about the researchers. 

He frowned when he looked around him. The corridors were growing darker and darker, the windows farther apart. He found himself at a junction. To one end, in the shadows, he heard the tinkle of music in the distance. Familiar music. The image of a dancing marionette automaton rose in his mind. His frown deepened and he headed the other way, his feet tapping the marble of the floor like chess pieces on the board, tap tap tap.

The lights of the windows fell away behind him. The carpets were long gone, and the more sombre surroundings hinted that this was encroaching into the servant’s wing. He had to get his damn banker’s order - get it and leave. Calm down. He stopped his running, realizing his breathing was quick and erratic. His heart thundered in his ears, his hands were shaking as the world swam in and out of vision. What on earth was happening? He only had a sip of the brandy! 

He grunted, shaking his head, trying to keep his thoughts straight. His thoughts were growing fuzzy, his mind spinning like the world around him. He grit his teeth as he tried to find his way. In the dim lights of the gas lamps on the wall, he could see the silhouette of a figure in a long gown. “You!” he called, his sweat coming cold now. “You-- Where’s the-- Secretary…” He gripped his head. 

The sound of the music box tinkled behind him. He whimpered. The woman turned and walked into a hallway. Alonso staggered after her, the marionette’s music box ghosting after him. He quickened his pace. “Wait--” he breathed, the music growing louder in his mind. 

He staggered into the hallway, leaning against the wall. “What was in-- in the drink…” he hissed. He looked up to see the woman standing there, regarding him coldly, her face hidden in shadow. His body was beginning to feel weak, and he stumbled to the ground, his mouth like sandpaper as his breath came hoarse and laboured. His fingers clawed helplessly on the wooden floor, the gas light glistening off his sweat. “H-help me…”

“They begged for help too,” said the voice, cold and hard. “But you burned them alive, didn’t you?”

His eyes widened, stark and horrified. They knew! They knew!

“Please…” he rasped. 

The woman raised a hand to him. With his breath roaring in his ears like a gale, he reached out to her with a shaking hand, his desperate fingers swimming in and out of focus. Then, as if bound by an invisible vice, he saw his fingers stretch and bend backwards over his hand to the cracking of bones. His scream came silent from his lips as his body contorted, pain filling his universe. His impotent, voiceless cries were drowned by the music box song, a dark symphony to his agony as he was lifted off the ground by a force unseen, his body cracking and snapping like a contorted, helpless marionette.

++++

Evelyn sat in her drawing room, staring at the board before her. She lifted the cup of brandy she held to her lips and drained it in a single gulp. The door opened then, and Bull entered. “I’m sorry to say the Marquis has taken ill,” said Bull. “Sol is tending to him.”

“I see,” she said, glancing at Alonso’s cup. She stood up, her eyes once more regarding the game. “I value your assistance in his care,” she said to the Iron Bull. She sighed heavily. “Send Krem out on the first airship to the Anderfels. He is to acquire the plans and have them returned to us, please. I would trust no other. And ask Sol to proceed with the compensation for the families of the engineers we lost to the blast.”

“You know I got your back, boss.” The Iron Bull paused and walked over to her, standing nearly twice her height. Her eyes looked down on the board. “You did good, boss. You made the call that needed to be made.”

She reached out for the queen piece on the board and shifted it with dainty fingers to check the black king. Her fingers shook as they rested on the the white queen, but when she let go, the small woman drew herself up, wrapped in steel. 

“I know, The Iron Bull,” she said. "That's why I made it."


	2. Busy Schedules

The gramophone played, the music hall song filling the air along with the crackle of the needle. The garden patio was illuminated by the sunshine, the plates set out on the white wrought iron table caught the dappled sunlight. The sound of a teaspoon tinkling on the side of a teacup punctuated the bawdy verses of the song. Evelyn sat at the table, an elderly sleeping spaniel at her feet. 

Her dress was doll like, catching at her neck in a collar of white lace. She lifted the teacup to her lips as the footsteps approached from along the garden path. Evelyn could hear the quiet, familiar footsteps as Solona approached, sunlight dappling on her dark green bustle dress with plain brass buttons. Her corset led up to her high collar, giving her an austere look. “We are going to  have a busy day, Lady Evelyn,” Solona said, walking towards her with her clipboard in hand. 

“I’m not surprised,” Evelyn said brightly as she lowered her teacup. “How is our dear Alonso, by the way?”

“He is recovering in a ward at Hargrave Asylum,” Solona said cooly. “He is babbling unfortunately, extremely incoherent with his wits seemingly addled by whatever afflicted him last night.”

“Such a pity,” Evelyn murmured, the servants lacing up her light blue dress coat. “What is on the cards this morning then? Papa’s gone again, I hear.”

“He has taken the first ship out of Fort Drakon for Tevinter, yes,” Solona said cooly. “He has left you a celebratory bottle of champagne and instructions with me for the selection of--”

“My husband,” Evelyn finished. “Well, something to put low on the list. What do we have today?”

And Solona began reading off her litany of Evelyn’s daily schedule. Violin lessons, flower arrangement, idle preoccupations for her mind were always in evidence. But training with the Iron Bull was far from idle, as were the inspections of the Denerim Division of the Research Branch. “Prince Alistair would be happy to join you for breakfast as well,” Solona said. “To discuss the missing Warden Deep Walker plans.” 

“Did he tell you to write that in?” Evelyn asked. 

“Yes,” Solona all but rolled her eyes. 

“Subtle. Please continue.”

“The only task that remain unscheduled is a meeting with Master Willem Devereaux, a junior clerk from the Denerim Bank. He has requested your assistance in a personal matter upon Ser Gregoir’s recommendations.”

“Oh?”

“His plea involves an automobile in Lake Calenhad, I believe. A corpse was pulled from the wreckage. It was his mother. He insists to have an audience with you.”

Evelyn’s bowed lips arched in a smile. “Perhaps we should let him join me after my breakfast with Alistair is over,” she said primly. 

Solona’s pen scribbled on the clipboard. “I shall send a carriage immediately, and show His Highness--”

“No need for that,” came a voice. Evelyn put on her best talking-to-the-royals face as Alistair joined her at the table. “I thought I’d dispense with the formalities, a bit. We are friends, aren’t we?”

Evelyn blinked, stood and curtseyed. “As your highness desires,” she cooed.

Alistair winced in distaste. “I walked into that one.”

“Your Highness has a marvelously astute mind,” she bobbed again. 

He stole a glance at Solona, who disapprovingly adjusted her glasses and silently placed some legal papers, prepared for signature on the table before left without a word.

“I was hoping Miss Amell would join us to discuss the legal matters.” Alistair said as glanced the closing door.

“Your Highness, Solona has everything prepared, we only have to sign it. She put in a new conditional clause, you can check it with your own lawyer if you want,” Evelyn chirped. Alistair opened the folder and checked the page marked with a small paper and read the new clause. “I’m sorry I have to disappoint you, but she has other businesses to take care of, not to mention the litigations we have to deal with.”

“You sound like Miss Amell,” Alistair noted. “Did she teach you the right words for the law things?”

“I may not have a doctorate in Law,  _ Your Highness _ , but I learn fast.”

“Alight, alright” he said, holding his hands up. “Can we dispense with the highnesses, please?”

She beamed at him. “I shall beg Solona’s continued tutelage on protocol then,” she said. “Such as “When is it convenient for Alistair to be a ‘prince’?”

“Convenient for whom? Me or you?”

“Testy, aren’t we?” Evelyn said, pouring him a cup of tea. “I hear you know what happened to the Deep Walker plans.”

“Yes, we did. Our patents are not yet fixed, we were relying on you lot to get a prototype up.” Alistair leaned back on the wrought iron chair. 

“We are retrieving them,” she said evenly. “And fixing the leak.”

“I hope so, or Duncan will give me a  _ look _ and I don’t think I could bear it.” He sipped from his cup. “The fact is, we need those units.”

She glanced at him. “I understand, we will ensure they are delivered on schedule. And find the would-be buyer for my stolen plans. Someone tipped my man off to this insane plan.” She sighed and leaned back on her chair, fingers tapping the armrest. “Twelve good researchers died. Some of them I knew as a girl.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, his voice sombre. “I hate to be the one to put pressure but… we need those Walkers.  _ Something _ is--” He bit his lip. “Well, let’s just say we want to avoid an escalating situation.”

“Nip the Blight in the bud?” 

“That’s one way of putting it.”

She sighed softly, leaning back in her chair with her cup of tea held delicately in her fingers. “I hope the Wardens can continue to find the funds for the research,” she murmured. “I must admit, there are few who even talk about the Blight now, save for you lot.”

“Though it’s always a problem,” Alistair said, reaching for some toast. 

“Naturally,” she chuckled. “But it is, to the politician’s mind, the best sort of problem.”

“How is it--”

“Because it’s far away, and thus, not their problem at the moment.”

“How did one like you get so cynical?” he asked, his eyes filled with mirth as he spread butter on his toast with a silver knife. 

“Corsets,” she shrugged. “Always prepare for the worst when you’re not sure if your lungs can even carry you through a walk in the garden.”

“Sadly, that is exactly the way Anora treats it,” Alistair winced. “Not like a corset. I mean she’s happy to see it far away. Cailan though… well. Cailan is Cailan.” He bit into the toast with some ferocity. 

“Anora is more concerned about the underworld in Denerim right now,” Evelyn said. “The spread of illegal substances, in particular.”

“Truly. Chantry dropped the ball when they lost the exclusive contract with the dwarves.” He waved his bitten toast grandly in the air. “Lyrium for the masses. Isn’t that lovely? Now Anora’s left picking up the pieces, with her laws and such.”

“With suitable fervor. Blue, now red, it’s all the same cancer to society. Kirkwall was…”

“A disaster,” Alistair said. “And outreach to the mages has been, well, not quite a disaster.”

“We’re not at war yet,” she said. “And none of my little projects have been turned against mages en masse.”

“No,” he smiled. “Just the Templar equipment.” He waved his hand. “Come now, Evie, I didn’t come here to talk politics. All this sort of thing makes my head hurt.”

She chuckled. “Maybe we can fence later, if all goes well.” She looked up then to see a young man being led to her, completely dwarfed by the height of The Iron Bull. The man was simply dressed in a cheap but well-cut suit, as befitting a clerk at the most prestigious bank. 

Alistair saw her guest approaching. “Throwing me out again, eh?” he grinned, getting up. “I’ll go nose around the factory. Surprise inspection. Are you trembling nervously at the thought?”

“To my toes,” she smiled. “Let me know if you see anything that needs my attention, Your Highness.” He winced, but nodded and made his exit, just as the young man arrived at her table. He carried a black leather suitcase in his hand, and upon seeing her, took his hat off in greeting. 

As bull gave the introductions, Master Devereaux kept glancing at the player. “Do you know this tune, Master Devereaux?” Evelyn noted when Bull had introduced the man. 

“I do, my lady,” blinked the man. He laughed awkwardly. “I apologise, I should be thanking you for seeing me. I was just taken by surprise that you listen to--- uh--”

“Gertie’s Green Garters?” Evelyn smiled. 

“Uh--”

“The part when Lord Plimore drops them is my favourite.” 

He chuckled despite himself. “Well, I should think that’s everyone’s favourite part.”

She grinned at him, gesturing to a chair opposite her. “Please, sit.”

He sat down, setting his suitcase on his lap. A servant stepped forward to pour him a cup of tea. Evelyn set down her cup on the delicate saucer. She rested her hand on Willem’s hands, clutching the suitcase sides, forefinger tapping the worn but polished leather. “I have a favour to ask, my lady,” he began uncertainly. “It’s-- Ser Gregoir suggested that I might find the help I need here.”

She tilted her head. The hesitation, the uncertainty, the way he held the suitcase. Something valuable inside. “You can rest assured that whatever you say to me will not be repeated,” she said. “Despite popular belief about women, I can keep a secret.”

Willem glanced at her. “Ser Gregoir vouched for you,” he said. 

“That I know,” she said, her fingers reaching down to scratch the elderly spaniel’s ear. “Do you know why Ser Gregoir referred you to me?”

He cleared his throat. “I honestly don’t,” he admitted. “He didn’t even tell me how you could help, other than that you could.”

She flashed him a smile. “Perhaps it’s best that we leave it at that, Master Devereaux.” She looked expectantly at Willem.

His eyes darted to her hair, her stature, her fingertip tapping impatiently on the tabletop. He didn’t know what to make of her, she could tell. He lowered his eyes and plunged ahead. “My mother was Lucia Devereaux,” he began. “She was married to Bann James Calon. She passed two days ago. She was in an automobile with Bann Calon one night. Some time during the ride, they say they nearly ran into a deer. Bann Calon was driving and said he swerved. It was dark. He drove right into Lake Calenhad. My mother was unable to escape the carriage. Bann Calon managed to get free and call for help. By the time the Yard got there, it was too late to save her.”

“My condolences for your loss,” she said. “What was the Yard’s conclusion?”

“The Yard said it was an open and shut case,” said Willem. “Bann Calon was able to prove that he was in the lake. It’s all…” He frowned. 

Evelyn tilted her head. “Strange?” 

Willem bit his lip and sighed heavily. He reached for the cup of tea, taking a sip before setting it down with shaking fingers. “My mother and the Bann did not have a happy marriage. He was willing to buy off and pay her debts. Because he loved her, he said. the Yard won’t listen to me.”

“And Ser Gregoir pointed you to me because?”

“Because he said you didn’t care about the Yard or about Bann Calon,” Willem said. “He said that if--” He bit his lip. 

“Go on,” she smiled. “There’s no love lost between Ser Gregoir and I, I can assure you.”

“It’s not polite.”

“Gregoir rarely was.”

Willem gave in. “He said he’d be glad for you to be a pain in the Yard’s arse, since he wasn’t in charge anymore.”

Evelyn burst out laughing at that. 

“We all know how the Yard works, my lady. King Cailan rarely does anything about how the nobles run rough-shod over our police. There’s rumour you can get the coppers to take away the corpse on the promise of a pint all round.”

Yes, Evelyn knew. Gregoir had tried his best, but always his hands were tied. That was the nature of privilege. Private law. Nobility and the rich operated in a sphere seemingly separate from the hold of the law. As much as the Yard tried, they were helpless to prosecute the powerful. Money was paid, lawyers were hired, and the cases were dropped or closed with minimum fuss. Evelyn was aware of that, having participated in a few scuffles outside of the law herself. And yet here she was, assisting in the possible prosecution of her peers. Well, it helped that she had a little extra law on her side. 

“I believe I can look into the peculiarities of the situation, Master Devereaux,” she said. “It does seem a curious story.” 

Willem seemed uncertain. “Thank you,” he said. “At least someone will.” He tapped the case he held with a nervous finger. He didn’t seem eager to open it, however. 

“I will listen,” she said. “But I cannot insert myself where I do not know it is necessary.”

He nodded and bit his lip. “My mother,” he said, looking down at his case. “She was a chemist. A brilliant one.”  _ Snap, snap _ . He paused. “I hesitate to present such a crude item before your ladyship, but…” He drew it out, and set the delicate thing on the table next to her croissants. A small bottle stoppered with a wax-sealed cork. Within, a dull red flow emanated from the crystalline shard. 

Evelyn’s eyes hardened as she lifted them from the bottle. “Tell me,” she said, her voice like frost. “Tell me everything.”

 

++++++

 

It was called Drakon Yard, named after the now open courtyard that was once enclosed by the walls of the old Fort. Built into the bones of the ancient fortress, with its towering, massive don jon, the Yard was many things. For one, being the highest and most central point in the city, it was the port of call for many of the airships. The top of the don jon had been converted into a dock for the blimps that flew in and out of the city, allowing passengers to board and disembark. Elevators on rails had been installed to ferry passengers up and down the tower. The constant passing of blimps filled the air with their thrumming propellers and scent of steam. 

Besides being the home of the airship dock, the buildings that made up the base of the fortress also housed the City Guard and all the local law enforcement required. The jails were in the bowels of the keep, and most of the rooms had been remodelled to house the many functions the guards required - from barracks to offices to armouries. And the garages. 

Cullen loved the garages. The steam revolution had changed Thedas in ways he hadn’t thought possible. He grew up watching the flying airships that coasted the sky over Honnleath. He joined the Templars and trained with their armored vehicles, flying one-man carriers, spellshield bombs - all the tech he could ever dream of. 

Of course the City Guard had no need for such specialised tech, but the tech it did have could be improved on. He stood in the garage, looking over the armored car before him, its wheels on treads and body shielded in steel. The thing was a beast. Topped with a gatling gun, it growled at the world, challenging anyone to even step near. It was intimidating. It was exciting. It was also completely not what he asked for. 

He frowned as he considered the vehicle. With his crisp dark red uniform with golden braid, he looked distinctly out of place amongst the mechanics in their overalls and grease and arms stained with oil up to the shoulder. “So, Hawke,” he said to the man in a suit beside him. “I distinctly remember putting in my requisition requirements that I wanted - and this is important -  _ non-lethal _ .” He gestured up at the gun. “How is two hundred rounds a minute non-lethal?”

Hawke scratched at his beard. “Well, warning shots, obviously,” he said. “In the air. Above heads.”

“In civilian areas?” Cullen glared at him. 

“Varric thought you might like it, considering how enamoured you were with the lyrium-core cannons in Kirkwall.”

Cullen drew a breath. “The City Guard is not the same as the Templars,” he said evenly. “And I cannot menace citizens with a gatling gun on my bloody armored personnel carrier. This was supposed to transport guards safely through a riot situation, not mow people down!” 

“You’re a lot less fun than when you were a Templar, Cullen,” Hawke sighed. 

Hawke writhed under Cullen’s glare. “Get. Rid. Of it,” Cullen grated. 

And that was just the first of his headaches of the day. Cullen glanced at the watch on his wrist, ignoring Hawke’s protests. He was running late. There was a thousand things to do. Command was not foreign to him. After the Mage Strikes in Kirkwall, the Templars had to step in to keep the peace in the face of the breakdown of civil authority. But even then with abominations and lynching citizens, he would have been hesitant to parade down the streets with a gatling gun. 

A worried officer hurried over to him, thumbing through a folder he carried, his face harried. “Commander,” he began. “Here is the report on the staff shifts - and there’s a Lady Trevelyan to see you in your office.”

Cullen frowned at him, taking the folder. “Why?” he asked. 

“She insisted,” winced the officer. “She said she comes under Ser Gregoir’s invitation.”

And there it was, just as Gregoir predicted. The other shoe had dropped. 

Cullen’s office was in the tower of the keep itself. He had a private elevator from the Guard floors, and the view was worth the extra work he had to put in with the promotion. The elevator rattled up to his level, and he stepped out as the doors trundled open. The door to his office was ajar, and he swallowed his annoyance at that. He had a waiting room outside his office, damn it, she wasn’t supposed to be--

As he pushed open the door, the thunk of a blade into a sack of straw resounded in the room. He stared at the young woman standing in the middle of his office, holding his throwing knives. She was wearing a fashionable short bustle dress coat and high black boots, as well as a cheeky grin on her face. “This is quite the restful activity isn’t it?” piped Evelyn Trevelyan, taking a knife from her grasp and aiming at the straw man in the corner of his office. 

Cullen hurried forward, reaching for the knives she held. “Yes, it can be--” he began, and stared at the blade that embedded itself in the straw man’s head. He glanced at her and took the knives from her grasp, his amber eyes thoughtful. “And where does a lady learn how to throw knives?” he asked, keeping his surprise to himself. 

“When you’re bored and rich, you can do anything,” she shrugged as Cullen moved behind his desk, setting the knives down on some papers. “I should get one of these in my study,” she chirped, reaching for a cane that rested against his desk. It was topped with an ivory horse head with a flowing mane, the crest of her house. 

“That would certainly entertain your tutors,” he said mildly, regarding her. Her laughter fell like rain, quite like the ballroom that night. 

_ “Maker, Rutherford, honestly,” Alistair had grated, pulling him away from the young women as Evelyn left them with her guard and her assistant. “Kept company?” _

_ Cullen sighed as they stepped into the welcome openness of the balcony that surrounded the ballroom. “That was not what I meant…” _

_ “Gregoir is too old for her anyway.” _

_ “Now you’re being inappropriate,” Cullen said, and remembered himself. “Your highness.” _

_ “Don’t give me that,” Alistair chuckled, taking out a cigarette box from his pocket. He popped a stick in his mouth and held out the box to Cullen, who shook his head no. “I’m at seven proposals,” Alistair shared after he lit his cigarette, he exhaled the smoke above their heads. “You?” _

_ “Thirteen,” Cullen rolled his eyes.  _

_ “Ah, to be prime meat,” Alistair grinned.  _

_ Cullen shook his head. “That Lady Trevelyan,” he mused, looking out over the verandah at the gardens that stretched out below. “She’s truly twenty one years old?”  _

_ “It is a debutante ball,” said Alistair. “Oh, yes, she is. Enquiring after her?” _

_ “No,” Cullen said firmly, and made the mistake of catching Alistair’s leer. “I am not! And anyway, I think I’m a bit old for her. Also a commoner. Not that it matters because I wasn’t asking after her.”  _

_ Alistair’s leer grew unbearably smug. “Such curiosity. I could arrange a meeting for you.” _

_ Cullen decided to drop the subject, knowing it wasn’t necessary for Alistair to arrange a meeting, not when Gregoir was only a call away.  _

Because here she was, seating herself down in the chair on the other side of his desk. Small, doll-like, wearing boots, which was odd for a lady of means. Her bright blue eyes looked up at him, regarding him as he regarded her. He cleared his throat as he sat down at his desk. Sometimes it paid to remember that the people he watched were also watching him. Evelyn beamed at him. “You’ve no idea the sort of tutors I have,” she said. “The most infamous, money can buy.”

He blinked. He was used to nobles veiling their strange curiosities and perversions, but to hear her speak, it was as if she didn’t care what he thought. He raised an eyebrow. “Infamous?”

“A lady needs hobbies,” she said. 

“So I’ve heard,” Cullen murmured, resting his hands on his table. 

The corner of her lip rose at that. “Is that so?” she purred. “And what else have you heard about me?”

Cullen stared. “It would be impolite to say,” he said. 

She chuckled. “That would be Ser Gregoir passing on information then. Otherwise it would be generally polite.”

Cullen shrugged. “You’re not wrong there. I believe ‘nosy-parker’ was the nicest bit.”

She grinned. “What a sweet old fellow.”

“Not to give any offence, but your hobbies made his tenure as commander difficult,” he said evenly. 

“No offence taken,” she said, tossing her head of short dark curls. “Because it’s also helped him put away a few rich fools who think they can circumvent the law.”

“You mean besides yourself?” he asked before he could stop himself. 

She seemed pleased at this as she leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs. “The forthright wit of an honest man,” she said coolly. “Yes, I do mean besides myself. Set a thief to catch a thief, and all that.” Her finger toyed with her cane. 

“I prefer to set a trap to catch a thief.”

“And that is why you’re an honest man,” she purred. “I know a few things about you as well, Commander.”

“What?”

“Professional curiosity,” she smiled. “And all of it good, I promise. Which is why I prefer for us to assist each other with a modicum of mutual respect, if possible. While I certainly made Ser Gregoir’s tenure difficult, believe me, it could have been so much worse.” 

“And I should trust you over my own officers?” he asked. 

“No,” she said. “You should trust me as much as them. But that’s to be earned, and I’m just a little girl with an odd collection of hobbies. Let us start with some information. Does the name James Calon mean anything to you?”

“Should it?”

Evelyn pouted slightly. “You’ve no flair for the dramatic.”

“I’m a simple man for grand displays. Why do you need to know about Bann Calon?”

“Good. He was recently bereaved, as I hear. His wife went down into Lake Calenhad when their car ran off the road.”

Cullen’s fingers tapped the handle of his chair. “And?”

“And yet,” Evelyn said, raising her eyes to him, “the case is closed before the autopsy report even comes in? Doesn’t that concern you?”

“You sound like a Denerim Herald reporter,” Cullen sighed. 

“Nosy-parker, remember?” she said. “Lucia’s son has spoken to me, asking that the case be looked into. I’m curious who sent the order to the department to close the case. Was it Erlina? Queen Anora? Bann Calon is a pretty important man.”

“That he is,” Cullen said, his eyes hard. “And yet I fail to see why you should be privy to any information on the case at hand.”

She sighed wearily, regarding him. Idly, her eyes drifted from his face, his scar, the stern furrow on his brow. She saw the map of Ferelden spread out on his wall. “Do you know the story of Argos?” she said. Outside the window, a blimp was coming in, its propellers whirring, cutting the air into slivers.

“I do,” he said, ad saw her eyes drift back to him. “A faithful hound whose master was lost at sea, left neglected and on death’s door by his master’s family. When the master returned, he saw Argos on a pile of manure, covered in lice and mere skin and bones. It only had enough strength to wag its tail and drop its ears at the sight of his master, before it died.”

She smiled faintly. “I hadn’t pegged you for a scholar of classical literature,” she purred. 

“I’m Fereldan, of course we read about dogs,” he shrugged. “And there is much you don’t know about me.”

“Argos is your department, Cullen,” she said. The propeller of the blimp blocked the light that shone in through the window of Cullen’s office, cutting the orange glow with black blades of shadow that ran over her body as she stood from the chair. “The City Guard is weak, understaffed, underfunded. Public prosecution is a joke right now. The nobles have free reign, and you? The Guard wastes away, your only domain the poor, the malign - the ones no one cares about.” She stood before the map. “And all the while, the rich do as they please. Being a rich person, I know what I’m talking about.”

She leaned over to peer at the map, looking for what she needed. “Bann Calon owns lands through which the Western Road runs, with Caer Calon by the coast. Private land. Only the select are invited to his parties.”

“Of which you count yourself?” 

“Commander, I am an heiress of the largest industrial company in Thedas as well as a member of a noble family that goes back eight hundred years. I am as select as they come without shitting gold.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “And this is where I can assist you, my good Argos. A fresh scent for you to track.”

She reached into her coat and drew something out, something that tinkled in its glass bottle. She held it out in her hand. Cullen’s chair dragged back across the worn wood as he bolted up. In two strides, he was at her side taking the bottle from her hand, staring at the contents within. A small shard leaned against the glass side. As the blimp overhead completely shrouded the window in shadow, the  shard lit their faces, glowing with the soft glow of banker flames and embers. He shut his eyes for a moment, and Evelyn saw his face grow slightly pale. “Where did you get this?” he said, and she could hear the tightness of control in his voice. 

“Willem Devereaux, Lucia Calon’s son by another marriage,” she murmured. “And I suspect there may be more.” 

He followed her eyes, to the castle mark on the map, sitting on the edge of the sea between Highever and Amaranthine, nice, quiet and very very private. Perfect for covert transportation. “If this is true,” he hissed.

“ _ If _ ,” she said. “We can find out.” Her bright blue eyes met his. “Would you like to be my plus-one, Commander?”


End file.
